Happiness Involving a Tea House (HP, ~2700 words)
For the HP Flashficathon, written for patchfire and beta-read by isiscolo!
Happiness Involving a Tea House
Like all English teahouses, the Yorkshire Rose was somehow larger on the inside than the outside; white lace and pink cloth covered round tables crowded the room, each carefully decorated with its own single half-dead flower in a small glass vase. Behind the small counter, Elsie -- proprietor and waitress of this place, these last sixty years -- tottered back and forth, re-arranging cupcakes under glass covers, warming teapots, swirling out cups, brushing off saucers and wiping knives.
There were few customers; three to be precise. Old Fred in the corner, sucking on a pipe Elsie refused to let him light. Maria, the young Latino woman who cleaned for Ms. Betts and did not speak a word of English but ordered by pointing. And a young man who, on his first visit, had stood in the doorway for a long moment, examining each chair for the potential benefit of its view and, having found one to his liking, returned to it promptly every day for the last week at eleven, to read his paper, sip his tea, and regularly peer at the door or out of the windows. Compared to the Major's habit of, every Sunday afternoon, seating his dogs on the chairs and serving them lukewarm tea in china bowls while he himself refused tea altogether in favour of adding sugar-cubes and a slice of lemon to his whiskey, this was relatively normal, and Elsie refrained from commenting (though she later remarked on it at length to Gladys and the women at the hair salon on half-price OAP Wednesdays).
Elsie had just finished arranging the display trays so the thick slices of fruit cake were prominently displayed when the door, flung suddenly wide, let in a blast of cold air and a tall, rather angular, silver-haired man. He moved with a determined gait and, in the step between outside and in, his oilskins and boots melted into black robes under a dark green cape without comment from the teahouse occupants but with comment from their owner who, directly upon hanging his cloak on a hook handy for just such a purpose, loudly proclaimed to the room, "Damn and blast this foul weather!"
The man with the newspaper snorted loudly from behind it.
"Excuse me?" drawled the newcomer, turning to regard the Evening Post with a haughty stare.
"Oh, please." The paper lowered to reveal glasses and an equally disdainful look. "It's barely spitting it down."
(This was, in fact, an understatement; though only barely.)
"Fine rain makes my hair frizz," returned the first. "And, really, 'spitting it down'? How horribly common."
The paper lowered all the way to the table to make way for a sighed. "Why are you always such a drama queen, Malfoy?"
"Have we met?"
Green eyes rolling behind the cheap framed glasses, the man pushed his unruly black fringe away from his forehead to reveal a thin lightning-bolt-shaped scar.
"Well, well, well. Harry bloody Potter."
"Draco 'the git' Malfoy."
"Is that any way to greet the saviour of the wizarding world?"
"Save-- Malfoy, you nicked the Death Eaters' operations budget and--"
"--thereby rendering the enemy destitute and vulnerable to attack."
"And buggered off to France for three years, which is hardly--"
"Maximizing the effectiveness of my manoeuvre with a tactical withdrawal from the field of play."
"Hardly what could be called heroic behaviour."
"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."
"...huh?"
"Dumbledore. First year."
"...how do you even remember that?"
"How do I remember having the house cup stolen because of the arbitrary whim of a crazy old guy?" Draco shrugged delicately. "I can't think."
"Albus Dumbledore was the--"
"'--biggest manipulative bastard this side of Machiavelli' was how, I believe, you put it the last time we met."
Harry's mouth opened and closed silently until finally he settled for glaring.
"McGonagall got your tongue?" Draco sighed loudly and stared in a rather depressed way out of the window. "Perhaps I should return to the storm and leave you here to continue your descent into bitterness."
"Sure," said Harry in a cheery tone of voice, "break my heart again for old time's sake."
"Well, if it bothers you that much--" Draco pulled out the opposite chair and dropped into it in an absurdly graceful manner.
"I-- I--" Harry spluttered. "I was being sarcastic! You dozy sod!"
"Of course you were." Draco patted Harry's hand. "I believe you. No, really."
"Could you not do that?"
"Do what? This?" Draco pulled Harry's hand up to sniff the cup it was holding and made a face. "What are you drinking?"
"Camomile," said Harry tugging his hand back.
"Ugh."
"I like camomile tea."
"Heathen."
"It's soothing."
"It tastes like urine."
"You'd know."
"Don't be disgusting, Potter; I'd never drink camomile." Draco leant back in his seat, musing. "Give me a green tea, made properly in a proper teapot and served in the traditional way; give me Earl Grey, served hot and strong; give me Darjeeling, in a china cup with just the smallest dashing of milk and a thin slice of lemon--"
"There you go," said Elsie, putting a cup in front of him.
Draco looked at it, suspiciously. "What's this?"
"Darjeeling, milk, lemon."
"...Thank you. That wasn't creepy in the slightest." Draco turned back to Harry and, in a very loud whisper, asked, "Did you know the old woman is listening to everything we say?"
"Don't mind me, dearie," said Elsie, messing with the flower at the next table.
Harry and Draco stared at her pointedly until she went away and then they sat on opposite sides of the table in silence. Harry's cup clinked loudly on its saucer. Steam curled above Draco's cup.
Finally, Draco said, "You didn't seem surprised to see me, Potter."
By way of response, Harry folded his newspaper in half, turned it around, and pushed it across the table. BLACK HOUSE AUCTION said the headline, although it was less a headline and more a break in a column of similar week-old local interest news, and as Draco's practiced eye flicked down the inches it swiftly picked out both his name and Harry's in the list of "expected attendees include".
"Ah, yes; the old family home."
"Family?! You're a Malfoy."
"And a Black." Draco flashed a sharp grin. "The Black, I should say now, right, Potter?"
Harry slammed his cup down, splashing tea. "Fuck you."
"In public?" Draco raised a surprised eyebrow. "Are we catering to some local fetish for voyeurism I should know about, now that I'm going to be living here?"
"You-- You really are a smug bastard, you know that?"
Draco smirked at him. "You haven't always thought that, you know."
"Oh, please," Harry sneered. "I remember seeing you in Malkin's before our first year, and I thought you were an arrogant shit then, too."
"You remember the first time we met? Aww!" Draco smiled. "That's so sweet."
"What--? Shut up, Malfoy!"
"Let me refresh your memory. About eighteen months into the second war, after Pansy and Goyle defected? A small pub in Wiltshire?" Draco leaned forward, a salacious note in his voice. "A private room? A secret rendezvous on the eve of battle between a devilishly handsome agent of the Dark Lord and the bumbling figurehead of--?"
"Didn't I already tell you to shut up?"
"You were the one who wanted to recruit me to your cause; it was quite flattering, really."
"It was Pansy's idea."
"And I'm sure you argued long and hard against it. Come on, Potter, you can tell me. Was it long and hard?"
"...Voldemort left your father to rot in Azkaban," said Harry, ignoring the question, cheeks reddening.
"That he did," agreed Draco easily, sitting back again.
"It seemed like a good way to get to you. Lucius was--"
"My father was a good man."
"He--"
"You might not have agreed with his methods, Potter, but my father was a good man."
"Fine. Yeah, okay. Whatever. Look--"
"No, not 'whatever,' Potter. He was a good man. He did what was necessary to keep his family safe and in good standing."
"And that justifies--" Harry bit off his sentence. He sighed, sipped his tea. "Look, I don't want to get into this, okay? It's over and done with."
"Yes," said Draco quietly. "It is."
They sat in silence again. Rain dripped from the bricks above the window and plopped loudly on the lower plastic sill.
"Cake with your tea?" asked Elsie, causing them both to jump.
"No, thanks," said Harry.
Draco ran an appraising eye over the offerings, then shook his head. "Not at this moment, thank you."
"Anything else I can get you gents? More tea, perhaps."
"No, really, we're fine," said Draco. "Please go away now."
"Just ask if you want something, dearie," said Elsie, wandering off.
"If I wasn't wearing a potion detector, I'd be worried right now," muttered Draco, frowning after her before sipping at his tea.
Harry asked "Did I really call Dumbledore the biggest manipulative bastard--?"
"--this side of Machiavelli? Yes," Draco grinned. "And then you ruined it by adding 'but that doesn't mean he isn't right once in a while'. And you'd been doing so well up till that point."
"I had?"
"Oh, you almost had me convinced. I was already measuring up my white hat. And then you had to go on and on about Muggles."
"Yeah, and remember that whole speech you gave me? Which," Harry added, "you had blatantly rehearsed."
Draco sniffed. "I happen to be a master of off-the-cuff oratory, thank you very much."
"Uh-huh," Harry grinned. "This whole practiced speech. About tradition and family values and how the strong had to protect society from the weak? About the great and glorious cause you were championing? About how Muggles would always be a threat because they would never have what we did, and we'd never be able to give it to them, and they'd always hate us for it? About--"
"Yes, and then you tried to shut me up by kissing me; I'd have thought the Girl Weasley would have told you that trick never works."
"What? I never kissed--"
"Right on the lips. There was tongue, Potter."
"Tuh-- There was not--!"
"You can't be trusted, you know. Going around, snogging people without warning? Bad form, Potter."
"Once!"
"Five times, actually."
"...I was drunk!"
"On butterbeer?!" Draco laughed. "And I thought you said it never happened."
"I. You. There." Harry growled. "Look, the point is, you were the one who wanted to champion this great cause. You went back of your own free will; don't put it on me."
"Yes, well, as it turned out, what I really wanted was to be incredibly rich and have a house in the country."
"You couldn't have had that epiphany earlier?"
"I was sixteen, Potter. What did I know about life?"
"And, really, Malfoy, why did it have to be this house? It's not like you can't afford anything you want."
"Some things aren't about money." Draco frowned. "What I meant to say is, some things aren't just about money."
"Love," suggested Potter, quickly adding, "Happiness. Truth. Justice."
"The revolving front door on Azkaban should tell you how much justice is about money, Potter," Draco said. "Now, see, that's one of the things our side got right. None of the bother of prisoners."
"Just mass graves to worry about."
"Well, they dig their own. Or, you know, bit of a reach this, maybe they used magic?"
"You used magic."
"What?"
"Not they, Malfoy. You. You used magic to dispose of the bodies."
"Over and done with, Potter?"
"Yes. Yeah, okay. I just-- why didn't you stay away, Malfoy? I was okay with you being in France. It was easier than. And then, here you are. Buying my house."
"Your house?"
"The Black house. You know, the last link to, to my godfather? To Remus? Probably the only thing even slightly related to my family that hasn't been blown up or burnt down or both?"
"If you wanted it so badly, why didn't you bid? You're not exactly poor, Potter."
"I. Did."
"Ah."
"Indeed."
"I was mildly curious as to who the 'disreputable looking desperate ruffian' was that my agent outbid."
"Oh, you-- you total--"
"I have lots of rooms," said Draco, offhandedly. "Why don't you come and share them?" Becoming aware of the sudden silence, he glanced up from his tea to see Harry staring at him, wide-eyed. "Now what?"
"Malfoy," began Harry.
"Certainly am," agreed Draco.
"You don't like me--"
"Because you're a speccy nitwit."
"--and I don't like you--"
"Because I'm gorgeous and talented and you're jealous."
"No, because you're an annoying little git."
"I'm taller than you, short-arse."
"Malfoy, with the possible exception of Tom 'Still Not Dead' Riddle, you're the single most irritating person it's ever been my misfortune to meet."
"What about the moron Lockhart?"
"Okay, second--"
"Or the Skeeter woman -- really, what was up with that outfit? And then there's that creepy Creevey character, always following people around with that camera flashing. Seriously, what's that all about?"
"Colin--"
"--has a thing for me, by the way."
"He does not!"
"Now, now, Potty, there's no need to panic; I'm sure your little psycho fanboy has enough film left over to give you a little hero worship when he's done following me around in awe, exclaiming about how wonderfully photogenic I am. Which," added Draco, "is, of course, true."
"My point, Malfoy," growled Harry, "is that you irritate me."
"Well, I was aiming for endearingly cute," mused Draco, then grinned and said, "But I'll take irritating to be going on with."
Harry banged his head against the table.
"Careful," said Draco. "You might spill my tea."
"Malfoy," insisted Harry, "there is no way in hell I'm going to move in with you."
"Here's the spare key," said Draco and tossed it to Harry, who caught it automatically, silently damning the Seeker reflexes which made flying glittering things almost impossible to resist. "I'll have Dobby clear out the west wing."
"Malfoy, this is-- This. I don't." Harry stared at the key. "Why?"
"I'm the Lord of the Manor, Potter. I can afford largesse."
Harry grinned before he could stop himself.
"It means," sighed Draco, "to be generous."
"This still seems--"
"The last link to your godfather. To Remus. The only thing that hasn't blown up or burnt down or both."
"I just don't-- What do you get out of this?"
"Say what you will about us, Potter; we make each other's lives much more interesting. Besides, what else are you going to do? Keep living with the Weasleys?"
They both pulled a face, although for entirely different reasons.
"Besides. You never asked me what prompted my sudden departure from the service of old snake features."
"...you called Voldemort 'old snake features'?"
"Never to his face."
"And, anyway, you already told me. Money and a house."
"And you."
"...oh."
"I spent three years in France trying to work out what that meant, and I managed to come to only one conclusion--"
"Oh?"
"--I really don't like French people."
"Ah."
"So, maybe, we can take this opportunity to see what this is all about?"
"Um."
"You're being rather monosyllabic even for you, Potter."
"I..." Harry laughed, pocketing the key. "Of all the teahouses in all the world, you had to walk into this one, right?"
"Rather like most of the time, Potter, I don't have the first clue what you're yammering on about."
"It's from-- never mind, Malfoy." Harry picked his tea up. "It's from a film."
"A film?"
"A Muggle thing."
"You'll have to show me, some time."
"Yeah," said Harry, smiling over the brim of his cup. "I will."
"You know, I think I will have a cake after all," said Draco, turning around in his seat to look at the counter. "Do they have any éclairs? I do like lots of cream in my buns."
Harry choked on his tea.
- 3 0 -
Happiness Involving a Tea House
Like all English teahouses, the Yorkshire Rose was somehow larger on the inside than the outside; white lace and pink cloth covered round tables crowded the room, each carefully decorated with its own single half-dead flower in a small glass vase. Behind the small counter, Elsie -- proprietor and waitress of this place, these last sixty years -- tottered back and forth, re-arranging cupcakes under glass covers, warming teapots, swirling out cups, brushing off saucers and wiping knives.
There were few customers; three to be precise. Old Fred in the corner, sucking on a pipe Elsie refused to let him light. Maria, the young Latino woman who cleaned for Ms. Betts and did not speak a word of English but ordered by pointing. And a young man who, on his first visit, had stood in the doorway for a long moment, examining each chair for the potential benefit of its view and, having found one to his liking, returned to it promptly every day for the last week at eleven, to read his paper, sip his tea, and regularly peer at the door or out of the windows. Compared to the Major's habit of, every Sunday afternoon, seating his dogs on the chairs and serving them lukewarm tea in china bowls while he himself refused tea altogether in favour of adding sugar-cubes and a slice of lemon to his whiskey, this was relatively normal, and Elsie refrained from commenting (though she later remarked on it at length to Gladys and the women at the hair salon on half-price OAP Wednesdays).
Elsie had just finished arranging the display trays so the thick slices of fruit cake were prominently displayed when the door, flung suddenly wide, let in a blast of cold air and a tall, rather angular, silver-haired man. He moved with a determined gait and, in the step between outside and in, his oilskins and boots melted into black robes under a dark green cape without comment from the teahouse occupants but with comment from their owner who, directly upon hanging his cloak on a hook handy for just such a purpose, loudly proclaimed to the room, "Damn and blast this foul weather!"
The man with the newspaper snorted loudly from behind it.
"Excuse me?" drawled the newcomer, turning to regard the Evening Post with a haughty stare.
"Oh, please." The paper lowered to reveal glasses and an equally disdainful look. "It's barely spitting it down."
(This was, in fact, an understatement; though only barely.)
"Fine rain makes my hair frizz," returned the first. "And, really, 'spitting it down'? How horribly common."
The paper lowered all the way to the table to make way for a sighed. "Why are you always such a drama queen, Malfoy?"
"Have we met?"
Green eyes rolling behind the cheap framed glasses, the man pushed his unruly black fringe away from his forehead to reveal a thin lightning-bolt-shaped scar.
"Well, well, well. Harry bloody Potter."
"Draco 'the git' Malfoy."
"Is that any way to greet the saviour of the wizarding world?"
"Save-- Malfoy, you nicked the Death Eaters' operations budget and--"
"--thereby rendering the enemy destitute and vulnerable to attack."
"And buggered off to France for three years, which is hardly--"
"Maximizing the effectiveness of my manoeuvre with a tactical withdrawal from the field of play."
"Hardly what could be called heroic behaviour."
"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."
"...huh?"
"Dumbledore. First year."
"...how do you even remember that?"
"How do I remember having the house cup stolen because of the arbitrary whim of a crazy old guy?" Draco shrugged delicately. "I can't think."
"Albus Dumbledore was the--"
"'--biggest manipulative bastard this side of Machiavelli' was how, I believe, you put it the last time we met."
Harry's mouth opened and closed silently until finally he settled for glaring.
"McGonagall got your tongue?" Draco sighed loudly and stared in a rather depressed way out of the window. "Perhaps I should return to the storm and leave you here to continue your descent into bitterness."
"Sure," said Harry in a cheery tone of voice, "break my heart again for old time's sake."
"Well, if it bothers you that much--" Draco pulled out the opposite chair and dropped into it in an absurdly graceful manner.
"I-- I--" Harry spluttered. "I was being sarcastic! You dozy sod!"
"Of course you were." Draco patted Harry's hand. "I believe you. No, really."
"Could you not do that?"
"Do what? This?" Draco pulled Harry's hand up to sniff the cup it was holding and made a face. "What are you drinking?"
"Camomile," said Harry tugging his hand back.
"Ugh."
"I like camomile tea."
"Heathen."
"It's soothing."
"It tastes like urine."
"You'd know."
"Don't be disgusting, Potter; I'd never drink camomile." Draco leant back in his seat, musing. "Give me a green tea, made properly in a proper teapot and served in the traditional way; give me Earl Grey, served hot and strong; give me Darjeeling, in a china cup with just the smallest dashing of milk and a thin slice of lemon--"
"There you go," said Elsie, putting a cup in front of him.
Draco looked at it, suspiciously. "What's this?"
"Darjeeling, milk, lemon."
"...Thank you. That wasn't creepy in the slightest." Draco turned back to Harry and, in a very loud whisper, asked, "Did you know the old woman is listening to everything we say?"
"Don't mind me, dearie," said Elsie, messing with the flower at the next table.
Harry and Draco stared at her pointedly until she went away and then they sat on opposite sides of the table in silence. Harry's cup clinked loudly on its saucer. Steam curled above Draco's cup.
Finally, Draco said, "You didn't seem surprised to see me, Potter."
By way of response, Harry folded his newspaper in half, turned it around, and pushed it across the table. BLACK HOUSE AUCTION said the headline, although it was less a headline and more a break in a column of similar week-old local interest news, and as Draco's practiced eye flicked down the inches it swiftly picked out both his name and Harry's in the list of "expected attendees include".
"Ah, yes; the old family home."
"Family?! You're a Malfoy."
"And a Black." Draco flashed a sharp grin. "The Black, I should say now, right, Potter?"
Harry slammed his cup down, splashing tea. "Fuck you."
"In public?" Draco raised a surprised eyebrow. "Are we catering to some local fetish for voyeurism I should know about, now that I'm going to be living here?"
"You-- You really are a smug bastard, you know that?"
Draco smirked at him. "You haven't always thought that, you know."
"Oh, please," Harry sneered. "I remember seeing you in Malkin's before our first year, and I thought you were an arrogant shit then, too."
"You remember the first time we met? Aww!" Draco smiled. "That's so sweet."
"What--? Shut up, Malfoy!"
"Let me refresh your memory. About eighteen months into the second war, after Pansy and Goyle defected? A small pub in Wiltshire?" Draco leaned forward, a salacious note in his voice. "A private room? A secret rendezvous on the eve of battle between a devilishly handsome agent of the Dark Lord and the bumbling figurehead of--?"
"Didn't I already tell you to shut up?"
"You were the one who wanted to recruit me to your cause; it was quite flattering, really."
"It was Pansy's idea."
"And I'm sure you argued long and hard against it. Come on, Potter, you can tell me. Was it long and hard?"
"...Voldemort left your father to rot in Azkaban," said Harry, ignoring the question, cheeks reddening.
"That he did," agreed Draco easily, sitting back again.
"It seemed like a good way to get to you. Lucius was--"
"My father was a good man."
"He--"
"You might not have agreed with his methods, Potter, but my father was a good man."
"Fine. Yeah, okay. Whatever. Look--"
"No, not 'whatever,' Potter. He was a good man. He did what was necessary to keep his family safe and in good standing."
"And that justifies--" Harry bit off his sentence. He sighed, sipped his tea. "Look, I don't want to get into this, okay? It's over and done with."
"Yes," said Draco quietly. "It is."
They sat in silence again. Rain dripped from the bricks above the window and plopped loudly on the lower plastic sill.
"Cake with your tea?" asked Elsie, causing them both to jump.
"No, thanks," said Harry.
Draco ran an appraising eye over the offerings, then shook his head. "Not at this moment, thank you."
"Anything else I can get you gents? More tea, perhaps."
"No, really, we're fine," said Draco. "Please go away now."
"Just ask if you want something, dearie," said Elsie, wandering off.
"If I wasn't wearing a potion detector, I'd be worried right now," muttered Draco, frowning after her before sipping at his tea.
Harry asked "Did I really call Dumbledore the biggest manipulative bastard--?"
"--this side of Machiavelli? Yes," Draco grinned. "And then you ruined it by adding 'but that doesn't mean he isn't right once in a while'. And you'd been doing so well up till that point."
"I had?"
"Oh, you almost had me convinced. I was already measuring up my white hat. And then you had to go on and on about Muggles."
"Yeah, and remember that whole speech you gave me? Which," Harry added, "you had blatantly rehearsed."
Draco sniffed. "I happen to be a master of off-the-cuff oratory, thank you very much."
"Uh-huh," Harry grinned. "This whole practiced speech. About tradition and family values and how the strong had to protect society from the weak? About the great and glorious cause you were championing? About how Muggles would always be a threat because they would never have what we did, and we'd never be able to give it to them, and they'd always hate us for it? About--"
"Yes, and then you tried to shut me up by kissing me; I'd have thought the Girl Weasley would have told you that trick never works."
"What? I never kissed--"
"Right on the lips. There was tongue, Potter."
"Tuh-- There was not--!"
"You can't be trusted, you know. Going around, snogging people without warning? Bad form, Potter."
"Once!"
"Five times, actually."
"...I was drunk!"
"On butterbeer?!" Draco laughed. "And I thought you said it never happened."
"I. You. There." Harry growled. "Look, the point is, you were the one who wanted to champion this great cause. You went back of your own free will; don't put it on me."
"Yes, well, as it turned out, what I really wanted was to be incredibly rich and have a house in the country."
"You couldn't have had that epiphany earlier?"
"I was sixteen, Potter. What did I know about life?"
"And, really, Malfoy, why did it have to be this house? It's not like you can't afford anything you want."
"Some things aren't about money." Draco frowned. "What I meant to say is, some things aren't just about money."
"Love," suggested Potter, quickly adding, "Happiness. Truth. Justice."
"The revolving front door on Azkaban should tell you how much justice is about money, Potter," Draco said. "Now, see, that's one of the things our side got right. None of the bother of prisoners."
"Just mass graves to worry about."
"Well, they dig their own. Or, you know, bit of a reach this, maybe they used magic?"
"You used magic."
"What?"
"Not they, Malfoy. You. You used magic to dispose of the bodies."
"Over and done with, Potter?"
"Yes. Yeah, okay. I just-- why didn't you stay away, Malfoy? I was okay with you being in France. It was easier than. And then, here you are. Buying my house."
"Your house?"
"The Black house. You know, the last link to, to my godfather? To Remus? Probably the only thing even slightly related to my family that hasn't been blown up or burnt down or both?"
"If you wanted it so badly, why didn't you bid? You're not exactly poor, Potter."
"I. Did."
"Ah."
"Indeed."
"I was mildly curious as to who the 'disreputable looking desperate ruffian' was that my agent outbid."
"Oh, you-- you total--"
"I have lots of rooms," said Draco, offhandedly. "Why don't you come and share them?" Becoming aware of the sudden silence, he glanced up from his tea to see Harry staring at him, wide-eyed. "Now what?"
"Malfoy," began Harry.
"Certainly am," agreed Draco.
"You don't like me--"
"Because you're a speccy nitwit."
"--and I don't like you--"
"Because I'm gorgeous and talented and you're jealous."
"No, because you're an annoying little git."
"I'm taller than you, short-arse."
"Malfoy, with the possible exception of Tom 'Still Not Dead' Riddle, you're the single most irritating person it's ever been my misfortune to meet."
"What about the moron Lockhart?"
"Okay, second--"
"Or the Skeeter woman -- really, what was up with that outfit? And then there's that creepy Creevey character, always following people around with that camera flashing. Seriously, what's that all about?"
"Colin--"
"--has a thing for me, by the way."
"He does not!"
"Now, now, Potty, there's no need to panic; I'm sure your little psycho fanboy has enough film left over to give you a little hero worship when he's done following me around in awe, exclaiming about how wonderfully photogenic I am. Which," added Draco, "is, of course, true."
"My point, Malfoy," growled Harry, "is that you irritate me."
"Well, I was aiming for endearingly cute," mused Draco, then grinned and said, "But I'll take irritating to be going on with."
Harry banged his head against the table.
"Careful," said Draco. "You might spill my tea."
"Malfoy," insisted Harry, "there is no way in hell I'm going to move in with you."
"Here's the spare key," said Draco and tossed it to Harry, who caught it automatically, silently damning the Seeker reflexes which made flying glittering things almost impossible to resist. "I'll have Dobby clear out the west wing."
"Malfoy, this is-- This. I don't." Harry stared at the key. "Why?"
"I'm the Lord of the Manor, Potter. I can afford largesse."
Harry grinned before he could stop himself.
"It means," sighed Draco, "to be generous."
"This still seems--"
"The last link to your godfather. To Remus. The only thing that hasn't blown up or burnt down or both."
"I just don't-- What do you get out of this?"
"Say what you will about us, Potter; we make each other's lives much more interesting. Besides, what else are you going to do? Keep living with the Weasleys?"
They both pulled a face, although for entirely different reasons.
"Besides. You never asked me what prompted my sudden departure from the service of old snake features."
"...you called Voldemort 'old snake features'?"
"Never to his face."
"And, anyway, you already told me. Money and a house."
"And you."
"...oh."
"I spent three years in France trying to work out what that meant, and I managed to come to only one conclusion--"
"Oh?"
"--I really don't like French people."
"Ah."
"So, maybe, we can take this opportunity to see what this is all about?"
"Um."
"You're being rather monosyllabic even for you, Potter."
"I..." Harry laughed, pocketing the key. "Of all the teahouses in all the world, you had to walk into this one, right?"
"Rather like most of the time, Potter, I don't have the first clue what you're yammering on about."
"It's from-- never mind, Malfoy." Harry picked his tea up. "It's from a film."
"A film?"
"A Muggle thing."
"You'll have to show me, some time."
"Yeah," said Harry, smiling over the brim of his cup. "I will."
"You know, I think I will have a cake after all," said Draco, turning around in his seat to look at the counter. "Do they have any éclairs? I do like lots of cream in my buns."
Harry choked on his tea.
- 3 0 -